Suspicious Fictions
by freudian fuckup
Summary: Updated: And we are legend. We are epic. Your hips on my hips are a million words wound through the pages of history. Post-Hogwarts angst, probably more to come...
1. Sirius' Perspective

Unfasten the mask of determination from your face. It's papier-mâché and already ruined from the rainstorms you keep walking through. Hurricanes and gale-force-glares have given you that sallow, drowned-man complexion, but you won't come in out of the rain, so I don't leave the light on anymore.

Shh, shh, the silence is fragile, don't break it. Don't ruin this. I swear to god, _don't bloody ruin this_. We're too delicate for words (words like knives in my back, I know all the things they say you say, and don't think I don't. Don't ever think I don't. Don't ever forgive yourself.) and too old for whispers, but we can still kiss inside this crime scene.

There are lies in your mouth. I can taste them whenever you forget to hide them, tuck them away in dark, curled in corners. There is penance in your fingertips on my thigh. There, there, _there_ it is.

I'll be so still, you won't remember I exist. I'll listen to the signals you don't know how to conceal. You've got a heartbeat like a shotgun blast, but I have a silver tongue (On your lips and now on your neck. A question mark curved into your navel—does this sting? I hope it does.)

That simmering ache that's building and burning in your eyes and your bones, I'll soothe it. Fingernails down your side trace your silhouette in the dark. Breaths like "ahh" and "faster" and "please." Eyelash-flutters like innocence (a close facsimile, but I've seen the real thing, and it was what made you beautiful, before).

Vertebrae like finger holds, I have you in my grasp (with slip-sticky palms). Your spine is my instrument and your mouth is musical – _ohgodohh_ and _pleaseyes -_ cacophonies of obscenity and sweet, honeyed vowels.

You—you of tearing muscles mending new, you of whispered things caught in the wind and carried out to sea—you were like harbor, once. You were safe shore. You were the earth and I clung (_slowslow_ and _ohgodyesnowfaster_) like a shipwrecked sailor, prayed (_pleasegodyeahplease_) like a lifeboat cannibal, died (..._oh _and_ ...ohhh_) like a drowning man.

Lighting splits the sky outside and the earth groans. It is old, like our excuses when we turn away, roll apart. I want to hold you so close it hurts (I want you to feel it).

I sold my soul for this—for black pools beneath each eye and the way your sweat tastes in the dark.


	2. Remus' Perspective

I see visions. I see you when I close my eyes. Not just in dreams, but also in the colors that paint the backs of my eyelids, color my vision when there's nothing to see. I find you buried in my bones, your words like Braille carved between the notches of a hundred moons. I see ghosts.

The wind outside howls prayers like _hallelujah_ and _eli eli_, and I am on my knees, a sinner and a saint. Don't lay your cross on my back, carved from your paranoia like lead. Don't point at me when you crucify yourself, hung up before the crowd, with you the martyred aristocrat, and I, your original sin. What do you imagine was my price? Thirty pieces of silver with which to destroy us both?

But I am the weak one. I am withered and broken, driftwood after the storm in your mind (in your body. Magic like angry wind swirling at your fingertips, violence and hate.) I could annihilate you, do you realise? Do you think about this when my teeth tear at your flesh, when my mouth is on your neck? (Not that you are defenseless, with landmines in your skin. Small explosions of terrifying feeling, I feel them with my fingers, but you are not immune to their shrapnel.) It would be so simple. I have suffered, but you would suffer more, no longer an outcast of your own making but the stuff of legends.

And we _are_ legend. We are epic. Your hips on my hips are a million words wound through the pages of history. Our story is the story of time, written before we were born, carved in the heavy stones of the ancients with magic long extinct. We struggle and resist, but we are just petulant children who can't yet see the futility of it (but I am beginning to see.) I begin to notice. Just give me this, give me sanctuary, give me safe passage. Let me have this memory for memory's sake (memorize the lines of your hands, your cheeks, your legs around my waist), because I can't bear to forget. And when your fingertips press bruises into my flesh, and when your gray-dagger eyes fly at me with a sound like _don't bloody ruin this_, and panting breath and creaking bone, I will pretend not to notice all the things I wish I didn't notice (the cold, growing shadow between us on the bed.)

Stay with me. Stay silent and stay whole, your whole self against me, pleads like _please_ and _more_ hide their meanings in the shadows of lust and the shadows beneath your eyes (_please don't let go_ and _more than anything, always_.)

You tell me to be quiet, to preserve the momentum, but what are you afraid I will say? That I _know_ you? That I know your doubts, your thoughts, the twisted wreckage of your mind, and _I am still here_ (even though you are not, not really)? What are you afraid of, your own shame? The shame that keeps your eyes closed when my mouth is on your skin. Are you ashamed of sleeping with the enemy or of the fact that you have made an enemy of the one you're sleeping with?

It would be alright, the loss and the leaving, if you didn't come back to me in fleeting moments of sanity when my fingertips scrape raw and bloody through the suspicion in your eyes and find your thoughts, hidden in your head, mangled by the fear in the air, the fear that floods your lungs. Because in those moments, I am not alone. And this is my greatest weakness (this is the reason I am still here, tangled in ice-cold sheets in the naked morning light. Alone.) You are more than a chink in my armor; you are a tear in my flesh, a bone-deep wound that aches to be covered, protected. But I let you reopen it, night after night, with gentle fingertips on the lines of my hips and silent lips on the back of my neck.


End file.
